


I Don't Know How To Say I Love You (So I'll Just Show You Instead)

by C4t1l1n4



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chaos, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Lute Magic, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, jaskier's lute - Freeform, too tired to tag properly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4t1l1n4/pseuds/C4t1l1n4
Summary: Geralt learns that Jaskier's lute from Filavandrel might have a little more to it than it seems.OrThe reason why Jaskier looks so young even after all these years.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 432





	I Don't Know How To Say I Love You (So I'll Just Show You Instead)

Jaskier loves his lute. 

His lute is his living, he’d practically give his life for it. This is nothing unusual for a bard. When Geralt becomes quite protective of the instrument, Jaskier thinks, that’s a little weird. Especially considering that he didn’t seem to care much about it before. It’s years into their travels, years after he originally got it when Geralt’s behavior starts to change.

———  
It’s Yennefer who pulls the Witcher to the side one night while Jaskier is asleep. She tugs him firmly away from where the bard lays, shutting the door behind them and into a different room, this door shut tightly behind them as well. Geralt throws her an unimpressed look. 

“Why does your bard reek of Chaos?” She demands, voice quiet but firm. 

Geralt stares at her like she’s insane. “What?”

“Why,” She says again, emphatically. “Does your bard _reek. Of. Chaos?_ ”

Silence lingers in the air as the Witcher takes a second to process what she’s telling him. “I don’t know.” He sounds more lost and confused than anything else. 

“Geralt of Riva,” she seethes. “Are you trying to tell me that Jaskier may or may not be human? And you’re not sure after all these years of traveling with him whether or not he has magic?” 

“He’s human.” Geralt says, without an ounce of uncertainty in his voice. 

Yennefer stares at him skeptically. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes but doesn’t push further. “Well, something is up, and you need to figure out what it is.” 

Geralt makes his way across the hall to where Jaskier sleeps, ridding himself of his armor and preparing to sleep himself, or at least, meditate. He lingers near the side of Jaskier’s bed, taking a deep whiff of the air. Yennefer is right, chaos lingers around the bard’s prone form, but it’s not coming from him. He sniffs again. The bard is definitely human. He backs away, sitting on the edge of his own bed, contemplating. What could make the bard smell so much of Chaos that it practically intertwines itself with the human’s soul? His gaze flickers over to where Jaskier’s lute lays against the wall. 

Bingo. 

Geralt slides across the room, lifting the instrument in his hands. As soon as he touches it, he can feel the magic woven into the wood, tangled among the strings, pouring from the details carved into the body. He gently deposits it back onto the floor, eyebrows furrowed into confusion. Why would Jaskier imbue his lute with magic? What purpose would it serve for a human bard like him? Where would he even find someone that he could trust not to mess it up? 

And then it hits him. The lute wasn’t always Jaskier’s. It was a gift from the Elven leader, all those years ago on their first day adventuring together. Geralt frowns, suddenly concerned. Filavandrel gave him that lute as a symbol of friendship, as an act of kindness. Was that all an act? Does this spell have some kind of hidden intent? And why has he only just now noticed?

He’s going to hunt down these Elves and demand answers if it’s the last thing he does. 

———  
Admittedly, it takes him a while to get there. And even then it’s more by pure luck that he happens upon them than anything else. 

He’s coming back from a contract, Drowner guts covering his skin, eyes still murky black. He’s walking back to their campsite, he had left Jaskier in charge of keeping the fire lit, and Roach in charge of Jaskier. Though, he didn’t tell the bard that, but it’s pretty much an unspoken agreement at this point, between him and his horse, to take care of the bard while he’s gone.

“Geralt of Riva!” A voice suddenly crows from off to his left. Geralt whirls around his sword in hand, eyes scanning for any threat. He doesn’t find any and, instead, finds himself looking at Filavandrel, who is waving down at him from the mouth of a cave in a nearby cliff face. Geralt nods in response. The Elf must take this as permission to come down and talk, but Geralt tolerates waiting for him to scramble down from his little perch because he too has something to ask. 

“It is so good to see you,” Filavandrel says, smiling brightly. He does not seem put off by the contrast of Geralt’s dark eyes from the midday sun or mind shaking the Witcher hand, despite it being absolutely covered in all kinds of filth. Jaskier will surely lament the lack of a proper bath when he returns to camp, he is sure of it. 

“Doing well?” Geralt grunts, not entirely pleased to be making small talk. 

“There are not many of us,” Filavandrel admits, though he doesn’t seem to be upset. “But we are strong.” Geralt nods. “How are you and your bard?”

“Fine.” His short responses do not bother the Elf either, so it seems. 

“Is that lute treating him well?” 

Geralt narrows his eyes, tone accusing. “What did you do to it?” He growls. Filavandrel seems rather taken aback by the sudden shift in tone but doesn’t appear to be afraid. Geralt cannot decide if this bothers him or not. 

“You seemed rather attached to him during our last encounter,” he begins, “Seeing as you so adamantly asked for him to be released, for him to not get caught up in our business.” Geralt _does_ remember asking the Elves to let Jaskier leave, but it wasn’t exactly for the reason Filavandrel seems to have taken it as. “And so I figured, well, humans live such pitifully short lives.” Geralt tenses the slightest of bits at the reminder of Jaskier’s mortality. He doesn’t his best not to think about the subject. “And since you seemed so attached to him, I placed a spell on the lute, so as long as he plays it, he’ll stay young. How long has he been traveling with you for?” 

Geralt is so caught off guard by the information just told to him, that he answers the Elf’s question without thinking. “16 years.”

“And he’s so popular, I’m sure he doesn’t look a day older-“

“Than when he first started traveling with me.” Geralt cuts off, the realization dawning on him. Of course, how had he not seen it before?

“He’s not invincible, of course.” Filavandrel says, “but he’ll live a much longer life.” There’s a moment of silence, but Filavandrel can tell that Geralt is processing, and might enjoy some time by himself to think. “If the lute breaks,” the Elf warns, “his aging will go back to normal. Though, I suppose I should’ve told you sooner. It’s rather impolite to magic someone without asking.” 

Geralt just nods, hoping that is enough to show the Elf that it was okay, and Filavandrel excuses himself, leaving Geralt alone once more. As he heads back to camp, he can’t help but think it’s rather good he didn’t know any sooner. Geralt didn’t exactly tolerate the bard when they first started traveling together, and he probably would've found the gift more as an annoyance than the blessing he considered it now. 

——  
It all comes to head a few months later. 

Jaskier had noticed the way Geralt had changed his opinion about his lute, treated it more carefully, made sure not to break it. The bard had tried to ask him about it a few times, but Geralt had vehemently denied any accusations. It’s not because they were wrong, the Witcher admits, it’s just because Geralt doesn’t really know how to explain it to the bard. So instead, he does what he does best, and avoids the topic. 

But they make it into town by evening and Jaskier plays for the crowd, Geralt hiding in some nice, dimly lit corner. After the bard finishes his set, he joins Geralt at the table and plucks a piece of bread off the Witcher’s plate. 

“What did you think of my performance?” He pushes, as he does every time. 

“Riveting.” Geralt deadpans, but Jaskier can see the amusement dancing in his golden eyes, and the bard knows he liked it. He takes it for the victory it is. Once he had some food in his belly, he goes for a second round of singing, lute ever faithfully clutched in his grasp. Geralt zones out after a while, he’s heard all of Jaskier’s song before and they are only so entertaining, even if he sings them well. 

He’s only brought back into reality by the sharp burning smell that he has learned to associate with Jaskier’s indignant anger. He quickly finds the bard talking to three other men, and they appear to be arguing. This, in and of itself, is nothing new, he thinks with a roll of his eyes. Jaskier has gotten himself in and out of more than his fair share of arguments, and even bar fights, so the Witcher doesn’t need to step in. Not yet, at least. 

His bard is rather, passionate, Geralt thinks, to put it lightly, and isn’t afraid to defend his opinions or call other people out on their prejudice against Witchers. It’s rather unnecessary, there’s no dignity that Geralt has left to be defended, but it’s sweet in its own way, even if it leaves Jaskier bruised and bloodied by the end of it. 

It’s only when he hears Jaskier snarl, holding his lute as a weapon rather than an instrument that Geralt steps in. Under no circumstances does that lute get broken. “Having problems, gentlemen?” he asks, looming over Jaskier’s shoulders, and gently plucking the beloved instrument out of the fuming bard’s hands. The other men take a look at him and promptly leave. One lingers a little longer, eyes flickering across the Witcher’s body as if sizing him up but ultimately leaves. 

“What was that about?” Jaskier demands, whirling around to stare at Geralt, still upset. 

“You were going to break your lute.” Geralt says, even though that’s not what he had intended to. 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, anger melting off his face. “And you care, why?” 

Geralt feigns nonchalance. “It earns us good coin.” 

Jaskier narrows his eyes, snatching the instrument from his grasp. “So if I break this, right now, you won’t care, right? Because I could just buy another one tomorrow and it would earn us as much coin as this one does?” Geralt huffs but glances away, and Jaskier can see the tension radiating from him. “Well, if that’s the case…” He lifts the instrument in the air like he’s about to break it over his knee, and Geralt lets out a small noise the bard can’t quite identify and wrenches the lute out of his grasp once more. 

The Witcher lets out another small sound, something resembling the word “please,” and Jaskier can’t decide if his heart has just shattered or melted in his chest. He looks up at the Witcher, genuine concern pooling in his cornflower eyes. “Geralt?” 

But the Witcher doesn’t say anything, just grabs Jaskier’s wrist in his other hand and drags him upstairs to their room in the inn. Jaskier stays silent, as Geralt seems to be taking the time to gather his thoughts. He’s finally deposited on the bed and Geralt just stands in front of him, lute in hand. Jaskier might even dare to say he looks nervous. 

“Geralt?” He tries once more. “Is everything okay?” 

“You...” Geralt drags his gaze from the floor and stares deep into cornflower eyes. “You can’t ever break the lute.” He says, and Jaskier honestly doesn’t know what he was expecting, but now all he wants is an explanation. “It… it can’t get broken.” 

Jaskier nods, standing to his feet slowly, approaching the Witcher the same way one might a startled animal. “Okay, I won’t. Why?” 

“You.” is all Geralt says. Jaskier has a feeling he is going to have to piece this one together himself. 

“Okay, something to do with me.” He pauses thinking, eyes roaming the lute as he does. “Is it because it’s Filavandrel’s lute? It is special?” 

Geralt seems to be relieved that Jaskier isn’t making him explain this all by himself. “Chaos.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen as his gaze flicker’s from Geralt to the lute. “It’s magic. Is that-“ Jaskier cuts himself off, suddenly crestfallen. “Is that why all my songs do well? Not because I actually have talent, but because of its Chaos?” The bard suddenly lets out a bitter laugh, and tugs at the heartstrings in Geralt’s chest. 

“No,” The Witcher quickly corrects, driven to speak to fix the mess he made. “Your song's success is all your skill. The lute, it just keeps you young.” Jaskier jerks his head to look up at the Witcher surprised once more. The corners of Geralt's mouth tilt up as he smiles. It seems Jaskier was just as clueless about this whole lack of aging thing as he was. It makes him feel slightly better about not noticing. “It’s why you don’t look or feel a day over 20, even after traveling with me all these years.”

Jaskier stares at the instrument with new-found awe, gently taking it from Geralt’s grasp. He holds it to his chest, then pauses, turning toward Geralt once more. “Then, why do you care?” Geralt is floored by the absolute confusion in his voice. “You barely tolerate me, wouldn’t you be happy for me to be gone, out of your way?” 

Geralt makes a similar soft and helpless noise like he did earlier, hands landing on both of Jaskier’s shoulders to make sure his bard got the point. “I love you, Jaskier.” Geralt admits bluntly. The way the bard’s breath hitches, staring up at him like he can’t believe it’s true pulls at the Witcher’s heart once more. “I was afraid to get attached to you because human lives are so short. I thought if I convinced myself you didn’t mean anything to me, it’d be easier when you...” He trails off, unwilling to even to voice the idea.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, voice watery. “I love you too, you big idiot.”

Geralt pulls the bard into a searing kiss, Jaskier wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s neck, lute still dangling from his hands. 

——  
It’s hard sometimes, Geralt thinks, to show his affection, even as it pools in his chest. 

Jaskier shows his love for Geralt through songs, through sweet-talking their way into having to pay less for a room or getting all the money promised for a contract. He shows his love through pet names, through silly little pick-up lines and jokes, soft teasing, and by simply telling him that he loves him. 

But words were Jaskier’s thing. 

Geralt’s always been more of a man of action than a man of words.

So Jaskier knows that Geralt loves him by the way he takes care of his lute. The way he always sets it gently on the ground, makes sure it doesn’t get scratched or damaged, always makes sure that there are extra strings in their pack, that it is out of harm's way during fights. 

So, yes, Jaskier thinks it’s weird when Geralt suddenly becomes quite protective of his lute. 

But now, he just thinks it’s sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write, but I couldn't come up with any ideas for the topics I actually wanted to write about, so I wrote this instead. Sorry if it's a little janky as a result. 
> 
> Not Beta'd, barely edited. Hope you liked it!


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